the hair on our pale scalps
has grown so slowly foreign
and mine, now remarkably long
does it hold a lengthy gaze at who i am becoming
while yours, sheared so short
does it gladly seek the leash of amnesia

the pile of trimmings in a dustpan
the dusty row of airborne split ends
is swept into a pale plastic pan of disposal
where the brevity of our kinship waits
for the rest of Monday's rubbish

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